As we approach the 100th birth anniversary of Dr. Bhupen Hazarika, it’s impossible not to reflect on the immense influence he has had on Assamese culture and beyond. Known widely as a singer, composer, and cultural icon, his genius transcended these labels. More than just a musician, Hazarika was a poet at heart—his true instrument was emotion, and his medium, melody. His songs weren’t crafted merely to entertain; they were verses set to tune, meant to evoke, awaken, and endure.
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For many of us, he wasn’t just an artist, but a poet—someone whose songs captured the essence of human experience with an emotional depth that remains unmatched. His work was a unique blend of lyrical beauty and moral inquiry, a seamless union of music, poetry, and philosophy.
Growing up, I remember the crackling sound of our old Bush radio, through which his voice would float in like a gentle breeze, carrying songs that felt like poetry—songs made not just for listening, but for understanding. “Bimurto Mor Nishati Jen,” “Moi Eti Jajabor,” and “Bistirno Parore” became more than melodies. They were emotional landscapes—portraits of love, solitude, and the restless wanderer in all of us.
His song Bimurto Mor Nishati Jen (“My abstract night is like a blue chador”) is a striking example of how Hazarika used simple words to conjure profound images. The night becomes a “blue chador, woven with threads of silence”—a metaphor that encapsulates the intimacy of solitude. Those “threads of silence” are not empty; they listen, hold, and nurture. His poetry is sensory, deeply human—gentle, yet full of emotional weight.
Songs like Moi Eti Jajabor (“I am a wanderer”) further exemplify his gift for blending personal experience with universal truth. In this song, he portrays the soul of a nomad—one who has no home, yet belongs everywhere. “Moi Luitor pora Missisipi hoi, Volgore rup chalo…” (“From the Luit to the Mississippi, I flowed, crossing rivers and countries”) isn’t merely about travel. It speaks of a deeper journey—through time, memory, and identity.
Whether in Assamese, Bengali, or Hindi, Hazarika’s songs were never just about rhythm or rhyme. They were vehicles of philosophical and social reflection. His use of imagery, symbolism, and metaphor was deeply poetic. The Brahmaputra wasn’t merely a river—it was a silent witness to human suffering. The “nomad” wasn’t simply a traveller, but a soul searching for belonging in a fragmented world.
This poetic vision was perhaps most powerfully expressed in Bistirno Parore, where he speaks directly to the Brahmaputra. “Bura Luit, Tumai Bowa Kiy?” (“Old Luit, why do you flow silently?”) becomes a question not just for the river, but for society itself. In a world full of suffering, the river flows on—indifferent, unbothered by the cries on its banks. It’s this blend of empathy and moral urgency that makes Hazarika’s work so timeless.
He once said, “There’s no peace within, but let’s pretend the wind is just playing.” It wasn’t meant to be profound. It was simply how he saw the world. His thoughts were wrapped in metaphor—and in that simplicity, there was wisdom.
In Manuhe Manuhor Babe (“People for people”), he gently reminds us of our collective duty: to care. “If people don’t pause to think of others for a moment, who else will?” he asks. It’s a call to action delivered without noise, just clarity and grace—much like Hazarika himself.
In Dola Re Dola, he sang about the lives of the working class, blending tribal rhythms with verses that rose against casteism and exploitation. The repeated chant “Dola, he dola” was more than a refrain—it was a cry for dignity, a poetic rebellion. He didn’t need grand speeches to resist injustice; his music did the work, quietly and powerfully.
Bhupen Hazarika understood the timeless bond between poetry and song—a connection as old as human expression itself. In his work, melody and meaning are inseparable. His compositions weren’t just lyrical—they were literary. Many could stand alone as poems, even without the music.
Each song carried its own emotional gravity—some soft and contemplative, others bold and unflinching. His tone moved effortlessly between tenderness and resistance, from lullaby to lament, weaving the personal with the political, the solitary with the shared.
But beyond his celebrated discography, Hazarika also gave us quieter meditations—poems that never needed music to sing. In one such piece, he reflects on illusion and human contradiction through a series of “what ifs.” He wonders: if love is just performance, what is it really worth? If the sky were paper, the moon merely a trick of light—how do we measure the value of what we think is real? Why do we, knowingly or unknowingly, embrace mistakes as beautiful, or welcome the ordinary just because it arrives in colourful disguise?
These aren’t just rhetorical musings. They are mirror-questions—gently urging us to re-examine our attachments, our ideas of worth, and the truths we choose to believe.
In another poem, he speaks of distant echoes—those cries that come from across invisible mountains, across time, memory, or pain. The speaker listens, strains to understand, but cannot. The voice is familiar, yet its source remains unknown. It might be the grief of a young girl, the whispered stories of an old woman, or the silent ache of someone forgotten beneath the everyday noise of life. The listener cannot name the sound, cannot climb the metaphorical thousand mountains to reach it—but still, the echo remains, haunting and insistent.
This is the kind of poetic terrain Hazarika often explored—not always with certainty, but always with sincerity. His work didn’t just seek to explain; it sought to feel. And in doing so, it reminded us that not everything must be understood to be honoured.
It wasn’t just his songs that made him a poet—it was his very being. Hazarika’s life echoed the poetry he created. He didn’t need a stage. He didn’t need applause. He could sit across a table, and what seemed like a casual conversation would suddenly feel like a moment from a timeless poem. That was his magic—a poet not just in song, but in life.
As we move towards celebrating his centenary, we should remember him not only for the songs he sang but for the life he lived. Dr. Bhupen Hazarika’s legacy is one of timeless resonance. As the Brahmaputra flows on, so does his voice—in our memories, our hearts, and in the poetry of everyday life.
(The author is the Commissioner of Police, Guwahati and STF Chief, Assam. All views and opinions expressed in the article are the author's own)
